Page 39 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

T he sound of a hammer echoed through the shop.

Emerson knelt beside the half-assembled display table, measuring twice before driving in the final nail.

Sawdust gathered around his knees like snow, catching the morning light that streamed through the newly cleaned windows.

The scent of fresh-cut wood hung in the air, mingling with the lingering fragrance of lemon polish and the faint perfume of the sample arrangements in the cooler.

Ava stood behind the counter, sorting through a stack of business cards—cream paper with a simple design of lavender sprigs framing the new logo.

They read: Bloom & Vine ~where tradition meets innovation.

She traced the embossed letters with her fingertip, feeling the slight indentation in the thick paper, the subtle texture grounding her in this moment of creation.

"What do you think?" she asked, holding up the card so Emerson could see.

He set down his hammer and took it, turning it over in his calloused hands. His fingers held the small card with surprising gentleness. "It's perfect," he said, his voice warm with approval. "Elegant but not fussy."

"Like the shop will be," she agreed, taking the card back and adding it to the neat stack beside the register. The lighting caught in the gold embossing, making the lavender design seem almost alive.

Three weeks had passed since she'd returned from Seattle, since she'd chosen this path, this place, this man.

Three weeks of planning and painting, of reimagining what her shop could become.

The reopening was set for Saturday, just four days away, and the list of tasks remaining seemed to grow rather than shrink with each passing day.

But unlike the frantic preparations after the pipe burst or the roof leak, this work felt purposeful, energizing. They were building something together, not just repairing what had been damaged.

Emerson returned to the display table, fitting the final piece into place.

The wood was reclaimed oak from an old barn outside town, each plank carefully sanded and finished to bring out the warm honey tones while preserving the character marks—knots and grain variations that told the story of its previous life.

The design was his own, with angled surfaces to showcase arrangements and built-in vases that could be rearranged as needed.

"That's the last one," he said, brushing sawdust from his jeans as he stood. His shirt clung slightly to his shoulders, damp with the effort of the morning's work. "Just needs to dry overnight, and we can move it into position tomorrow."

Ava came around the counter to admire his work, her hand resting lightly on his arm. The cotton of his sleeve was soft beneath her fingertips, warm from his body heat. "It's beautiful," she said softly. "Better than anything I could have bought."

He grinned, warmth and hidden meanings in his eyes. "Built to last."

The words settled between them, layered with meaning beyond the furniture. Everything they'd created in the past weeks had been designed that way—with permanence in mind, with an eye toward the future. Not just temporary fixes or stopgaps, but foundations for what came next.

The shop itself had been transformed. The walls, once a neutral beige, were now painted in soft sage, making the space feel both calmer and more alive.

The lavender mural remained, of course, their shared creation too precious to replace, but it was now complemented by new shelving that echoed its organic lines.

The floor had been refinished, revealing the warm tones of the original wood beneath years of wear.

Even the air felt different—cleaner, fresher, as if the space itself was breathing more easily.

"I should finish the workshop handouts," Ava said, reluctantly pulling her attention back to her task list. She ran her finger down the page, feeling the slight indentation of her pen marks from that morning. "And confirm the flower delivery for Friday."

Emerson nodded, understanding the pressure of the approaching deadline. "I'll clean up here and start on the outdoor sign next."

They worked in companionable silence for the next hour, Emerson gathering his tools and sweeping up sawdust while Ava finalized the materials for the inaugural workshop she would host on opening day. The soft scratch of her pen on paper and the rhythmic swish of his broom created a quiet symphony.

"Seasonal Arrangements: Traditional Techniques with Modern Twists" was already fully booked, with a waiting list that had surprised even her.

She paused in her writing, looking down at the guide she'd created.

Would the participants connect with her vision?

Would they understand what she was trying to create—a bridge between her mother's traditional approach and her own evolving style?

The question sent a flutter of nerves through her stomach, but beneath it was a confidence that hadn't been there before.

The shop door opened, letting in a gust of cool autumn air and Mrs. Connelly, her arms laden with fabric samples. The bell chimed merrily, its familiar sound now holding new promise rather than echoing in an empty space.

"I've narrowed it down to these three options for the window treatments," she announced without preamble, spreading swatches across the counter.

The fabrics rustled as they settled, soft shades of cream and sage and a deeper forest green.

"The green complements the wall color, but the cream might brighten the space more. "

Ava exchanged an amused glance with Emerson.

They hadn't actually asked Mrs. Connelly for decorating advice, but somehow she had appointed herself consultant for the reopening, appearing daily with suggestions and opinions.

Her enthusiasm, though occasionally overwhelming, had become part of the shop's transformation—a reminder that this space belonged not just to Ava, but to the community that had supported it for so long.

"Thank you," Ava said, genuinely grateful despite the unsolicited help. She ran her fingers over the fabric samples, feeling their different textures. "The cream might work better, especially heading into winter when the light changes."

Mrs. Connelly nodded approvingly, her silver earrings catching the light as she moved.

"My thoughts exactly. I'll have my niece's husband install them tomorrow.

He owes me a favor." She paused, her sharp eyes taking in the new display table.

"Emerson, that's exquisite work. You've outdone yourself. "

He ducked his head slightly, never comfortable with direct praise. A faint flush colored the back of his neck as he busied himself with his tools. "Just wanted it to be right for the shop."

"For Ava, you mean," Mrs. Connelly corrected with a knowing smile. "Don't think I haven't noticed how every piece you've built fits her perfectly with the right height for her reach, the drawer pulls positioned just so."

Ava felt warmth rise in her cheeks as she realized Mrs. Connelly was right.

The new workbench behind the counter was indeed the perfect height for her, allowing her to arrange flowers without stooping or stretching.

The shelves were spaced to accommodate her most frequently used containers.

Even the hook for her apron was positioned exactly where she naturally reached for it.

Emerson's attention to these details hadn't been showy or mentioned. He'd simply observed how she worked and built accordingly, making the space an extension of her movements rather than an environment she had to adapt to.

"Well," Mrs. Connelly said, gathering her remaining samples, the fabric whispering as she folded it.

"I'll be back tomorrow with the curtains.

And I've spread the word about the reopening.

Expect a crowd." She paused at the door, giving Ava a small smile.

"Your mother would be proud, Ava. Not because you kept the shop, but because you're making it yours. "

The words caught Ava by surprise, a lump forming in her throat. "Thank you," she managed, genuinely touched by the older woman's insight.

After Mrs. Connelly left, silence settled over the shop again, broken only by the soft sounds of Ava shuffling papers and Emerson measuring wood for the new sign outside.

"She's right, you know," Ava said finally, looking up from her workshop notes. "You did build everything to fit me."

Emerson glanced up, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I pay attention," he said simply.

"It's more than that." She came around the counter, moving to stand beside him where he worked on a sawhorse by the window. The wood he was shaping smelled rich and earthy. "You make me feel like I belong here. Like this space was made for me, not the other way around."

His hands stilled on the wood he was measuring. "That's how it should be," he stated. "A shop should fit its owner, not force them into a mold."

Ava's hand found his, her fingers curling around his larger ones.

"Like the mill could be," she said softly, the idea that had been growing in her mind for weeks finally taking shape in words.

"Not just a mill or a greenhouse like my mother planned, but a studio. A workshop space. Something that fits what I want to create.”

Emerson's eyes lit up. "You've been thinking about it."

"I have." She leaned against the sawhorse, her shoulder brushing his. Outside, a bird landed on the windowsill, its small form silhouetted against the afternoon light before it flew away again. "I've been sketching ideas at night, after you fall asleep. Nothing solid yet, just possibilities."